A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around.

Jonathan mixed with the group, and, sure of his prey, abided his time.
The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave.
Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head.
A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised.

But such was the violence of his grief,--such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.

That person advanced towards him.
"I have killed her," cried Jack.
"You have," rejoined Jonathan, laying a forcible grasp on his shoulder.
"You are my prisoner." Jack started to his feet; but before he could defend himself, his right arm was grasped by the Jew who had silently approached him.
"Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave.
"Wretch!" cried Jack.

"Are you not content with the crimes you have committed,--but you must carry your villany to this point.